


Holding My Own Hand

by Grinner_H



Series: 15 a Piece Prompt Challenge [13]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: For her prompt : The prettiest dresses are worn to be taken off.For Prompt #77 - Illogical (selected by Ash from 200 Writing Challenge).





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YamatosSenpai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamatosSenpai/gifts).



> For her prompt : _The prettiest dresses are worn to be taken off._
> 
> For Prompt #77 - _Illogical_ (selected by **[Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida)** from **[200 Writing Challenge](http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506)** ).

One day, this would all end.

Asami knows this, is utterly fucking _terrified_ of it, even as he pushes Takaba down onto the leather interior of his BMW's back seat and latches teeth against skin like he's trying to break bone. 

There is never enough room for the two of them, not in this car, not even in this world. It's humid and stifling and Asami has to struggle to _breathe_ in all this closed space, because choking rage and frustrated longing are all he's got filling his lungs. 

He tears the - now rumpled - suit from Takaba's limber body, tears into skin as if he's trying to engrave himself upon Takaba's skeleton.

His is the trail of possessive bite marks delineating the path from Takaba's clavicle to the jut of his hip, all sharp angles and bad temper that's enshrouded in guilt and grief.

Takaba wears guilt like it's the only skin he owns, and no amount of _Not your fault_ s and _Nothing you could've done_ s will ever convince him of the fact.

This, Asami knows well, and it makes him hate Takaba a little, hate _himself_ a little more, for it.

Asami has never been good with words - not when it really _counts_ \- so he bite-kisses his way along Takaba's skin in this desperate, aching way that simply says, _Don't._

_Don't hide from me. Don't lie to me. Don't make his death your fault. Don't run. Don't leave me too._

In Takaba's blazing gaze, Asami always reads, _Want you._

What he _never_ reads is, _Want me too._

And _that_ is the rusted blade that drives into his gut, the one that twists up and up and _up_ till it shreds the heart he lost to Takaba so long ago.

It _hurts,_ even when Asami likes to pretend it doesn't, even when he thinks that if he just ignores it long enough, it'll simply go away.

Because he would plunge headfirst - steadying, readying breaths be damned - into all the battles he shouldn't fight for this man in his arms, this man who so effortlessly makes him lose control, lose _himself._

Asami warms his lips against scorching flesh, swallows _Takaba_ in place of his own damnable pride.

_**Want** me._

_**Want me to want you too.** _

One day, this would all end. 

Asami knows that freedom is something that could never be caged, but he tries to shackle Takaba with words he can't bring himself to say and hopes that Takaba hears them before all this is over.

—

They shouldn't be doing this. 

Not in broad daylight, not parked outside the cemetery like this, not ten minutes after the goddamn _funeral,_ for fuck's sake, but Asami's _mouth_ is on his _cock,_ and god-fucking- _dammit,_ Takaba can't _think._

There's something damn near sacrilegious about all this. And some part of Takaba, the part that's always found his home in adrenaline and rule-breaking and _sin,_ can't help relishing the _heat_ and _Asami_ and the sheer _wrongness_ of it all.

And _this_ is undeniably wrong - sweat-slick back pressed against the door and fogged glass, hard cock in Asami's mouth, fist in his hair, somewhere between _please_ and _harder_ and _stop, 'cause it's too fucking **much.**_

It's _wrong_ because, three days ago, Takaba let his best friend _die,_ and all he can think about now is agony and sorrow and _it should've been me._

_Shoulda, woulda, coulda._

He shouldn't _be_ here, drowning in Asami like he'd _die_ if he dared to breathe. Shouldn't tighten his death grip on Asami's hair like it's his fucking _lifeline._

Takaba doesn't understand how Asami could stand to be close to him, to _touch_ him like this. He doesn't understand how Asami could look at him with warmth and desire and his own brand of playful affection, stare at him like everything he sees is _good,_ when all Takaba sees every time he looks in the mirror is a fucking _monster._

When Takaba meets Asami's eyes, he reads, _Everything._

In return, Takaba screws his own eyes shut, throws his head back against the glass, bucks his hips in need. What he offers is but a fragment of honesty, because _anything_ is better than _Don't._

_Don't want me. Don't love me. Don't settle for someone who isn't good enough to stand by your side. Don't be with someone who wasn't even strong enough to save his own friend._

_Don't, when I wasn't enough to get him to stay. Don't, when I'm not enough for **you.**_

He shouldn't be doing this. 

Takaba knows that he doesn't deserve Asami, but _anything's_ better than letting Asami _see,_ so he comes in Asami's mouth with a wordless shout and doesn't tell Asami that he loves him.

— 

They are both idiots. 

This, Fei Long knows too damn well, wishes he doesn't.

He sits on the cool marble of his own headstone, gaze turned heavenward, drinking in all the unused space in the sky. His fingers, braced upon the smooth surface, itch for the familiar comfort of one of his Hope cigarettes.

And he lets his mind wander to his friends, the only family he's ever had, the ones he left behind. 

He thinks about Asami and his impeccable hair, his precisely knotted silk ties, his neatly pressed suits. Thinks about his aberrant need for absolute control.

He thinks about Takaba and his loud rebellion, the way he's always seeking trouble just so he can run from it, the way he's always _everywhere, everywhere._ Thinks about his constant fuck ups and how he's always striving to prove that he doesn't _give_ a goddamn fuck.

Such beautiful people with their beautiful, tragic lies.

Fei Long thinks about his friends, their carefully constructed masks and meticulously burnished armor and all the ugly-pretty-obvious truths that lurk beneath. He breathes a sigh that's part exasperation, part reluctant resignation, and thinks, _If only._

If only they'd strip these masks and walls and _pride_ from each other, because they're the only ones who _can._ If only they'd learn to be unafraid. If only they'd let each other _see._

If only they'd realize they _should._

They are all, regrettably, idiots.

Fei Long watches the gradually darkening sky and mourns them both.


End file.
